


stomach it

by flagpoles



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: F/M, Not Really Canon Compliant, pining!jake is one of the best jake's i won't lie to you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-28
Updated: 2016-01-28
Packaged: 2018-05-16 18:50:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5836771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flagpoles/pseuds/flagpoles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I find you leaning over your apartment balcony railing, with a half empty whiskey bottle and yelling “THIS IS GOING TO BE MY WEEK. NO, IT’S GOING TO BE MY YEAR. I’M GOING TO GET THINGS DONE AND NOT IMMEDIATELY REGRET DOING THEM.” It’s nether going to be your week nor your year; it is the third Wednesday in April.</p>
            </blockquote>





	stomach it

You're insane, I'm not sure you know it but you are.

 

Once I find you leaning over your apartment balcony railing, with a half empty whiskey bottle and yelling “THIS IS GOING TO BE MY WEEK. _NO,_ IT’S GOING TO BE MY _YEAR._ I’M GOING TO GET THINGS _DONE_ AND NOT IMMEDIATELY REGRET _DOING_ THEM.” It’s nether going to be your week noryour year; it is the third Wednesday in April.

 

I still jump up there and scream with you, because _duh,_ you're _Amy Santiago_ and you're so drunk you can't even see your irritated doorman glaring up at you from thirteen stories bellow because two seconds later you’re pulling off your shirt and throwing it over the side of the building right onto his face. I pull you back then, because I know how much you like that shirt and how you’ll regret all of this in the morning. Gina is asleep on your counter top and Rosa is dragging a passed out Charles out your door, averaging about 7.8 eye rolls a minute.

 

You fall asleep on my chest and _I know_ I should move you because this is not how this works but you're so tired and so warm and I can feel your hair on my chest through the shitty thin t-shirts you keep telling me not to buy at Walmart.

 

This isn’t allowed and I know that, you're off limits because you always have been and just because I feel better whenever you walk into a room doesn’t make that any different. Being in love with you is weird because I wasn’t and then I was, like a light switch, except it’s not a light switch it’s _love_ and all I want to do is to sit in your apartment getting drunk and watching _Die Hard_ until I decay into your Grandmothers old couch from eating to many of your Doritos.

 

Which I know you have, by the way, because when we were over once I lost a bet to Terry so I had to go get him a ‘ _non-alcoholic beer’_ (which actually _exists)_ and I saw the three packs of Cool Ranch you have behind your first aid kit. Once I spilt Doritos in the new squad car and you said you’ve hated them ever since because the smell never quite came out of the seats but you still have three packs of Cool Ranch behind your industrial first aid kit and I think about this a lot more than is probably deemed productive by Holt.

 

You were so mad about that, emptying the entire contents of Scully’s lunchbox all over my desk as payback, and I was finding bits of ham in my reports for weeks after. I don’t understand why you hate mess, mess is calming, mess helps you hide shit. When everything is clean you can see all of it and seeing all of something almost certainly means you’ll see something you hate. Better to just hide most of it, really.

 

Charles is always going on about opening up more but he’s divorced right now so look where that got him, swallowing boiled eggs whole and wearing a Neo outfit. The swallowing things whole isn’t even the worst bit, it’s the _eating boiled eggs_ part, I would rather eat out of Scully’s year old lunch for a year than eat a boiled egg.

 

This is the part where you would say _what if Scully’s lunch was just boiled eggs?_ And then I would sneer and you would grin because you would have won and I would’ve thought about it the entire way home. Which is infuriating because you're _Amy_ and you wear pantsuits and you file your bookshelf by colour and once you prank called me at two .a.m. pretending to be Jerry Springer because your brothers tricked you into drinking hard lemonade and you laugh with your head back and like _Simon and bloody Garfunkel_ and when we were twenty-four you got me down to my underwear in strip poker and you _really_ can't hold your liquor.

 

Before Gina had fallen asleep on Terry and he’d then moved her to the kitchen bench, she’d been going on and on about how she’s finally seen seven drink Amy, who turns out to be wildly irresponsible and enjoys throwing her favourite t-shirts off buildings. The thing is, the scale of the six- now seven- kinds of drunken Amy and how cool they are doesn’t bother me at all. I don’t care because there isn’t a version of you that I wouldn’t like, drunk or otherwise, and I really have to figure out a way to get over this before fucking Gina notices.

**Author's Note:**

> *points finger at corgi* listen to me. do NOT blow this for us


End file.
